


Tumblr Fic: Supernatural

by AlchemyAlice



Series: Fic Fragments of Doom [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/pseuds/AlchemyAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic rescued from Tumblr: SPN edition!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. muscle memory

Sometimes, Michael misses the light that used to follow him even into the darkest spaces of the universe. He flies close along the paths of supernovae, picking up dust and radiation just to feel the heat at his back, sparking on wings that are now more absence than presence, the antithesis of what he once knew.

He has to relearn himself. These are new days that he lives in.

He looks back over his shoulder, and sees finger trails of cosmic soot and starlight outlining the tatters of tired wings. He still has them all, sixteen if you count the ones unseen, tucked into the liminal spaces of time and the swirling demi-dimensions where gravity exerts its strongest pull. But they are different, just as he is different.

Michael knows that he is a good son still, even if he only ever brings ill tidings now. His wings sing the song of silence, their hollows and sheaves bearing the trumpet of good news no longer. 

They fan out and furl like ship sails, hiding his face as he spins, holding in moments the souls of departed men, and memories of an undivided Heaven. 

He knows he is still a good son, but it is difficult, sometimes, for him to believe.


	2. REGRET

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> illusionofwill asked: For the pairing thing, Michean and "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?" please?

Dean has seen a lot of shit, okay? He has. Crazy shit. Crazy shit that has nearly driven _him_  crazy, that’s how awful it’s been. 

He’d complain, but if he started he wouldn’t stop until the End Times. 

…considering how close at hand those were, that wasn’t actually saying much. Whatever. His point stands. 

But when he says he’s seen some shit, it should put into perspective how totally off the fucking rails it is to see the world with Archangel Michael’s goddamn eyes. 

“Holy shit. Holy _shit._ What is–how–”

_Breathe, Dean._

“Technically, that’s your job right now,” Dean wheezes. 

_…Fair point._

Dean breathes. Blinks, a lot. 

The motel room they’re sitting in looks like itself, and about five hundred other things, all at once. It’s a crystalline overlay of past, present, and possible futures of the peeling wallpaper, dirty carpet and worn bedspreads, and its a mess of people and creatures passing through, living, dying, fighting, sinking into the dirt beneath the concrete. 

“This is what you see all the time?” Dean asks.

_More. There’s only so much your mind can take in. I’m helping fill in the blanks._

“How?”

Dean thought he could feel the gears turning as Michael considered his answer. It was a bit like being aware of one’s own neurons firing. It was kind of…cool?

_…I guess you could compare it to a Vulcan mind meld,_ Michael offers eventually. He sounds slightly embarrassed. 

“…You like Star Trek?” Dean asks. He can feel his eyes go wide.

_Heaven can be boring at times._

“Hot,” Dean says automatically. 

Michael, from inside Dean’s own fucking body, very noticeably freezes. 

Dean, for his part, looks at the ceiling, and wonders how he could manage to get into the one situation where sinking into the floor would not actually allow him to escape his humiliation, because the witness to his shame would just _come with him._

“…Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?” 

_Absolutely,_ Michael replies immediately. 


	3. unburied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From demonfeathers: "Can you write more about Dean and Michael? I’ve always loved your one shots about them."

They dug because Castiel told them they should, and neither of them knew what the fuck to think. 

“We shouldn’t even be doing this,” Sam muttered. “This shouldn’t even be  _possible._ ”

“And yet,” Dean replied flatly. He stuck his shovel in the dirt, and hit something with give. “Shit, here we go.” He started to dig with his hands, fingers scrabbling over what began to reveal itself as stained flannel and the beginnings of dirty skin. 

“If this is him, then where the fuck is Lucifer?” Sam hissed, even as he joined in.

“Does it look like I know, Sammy? Right now I’m more concerned about h– _augh fuck_!”

He reached a hand, and the hand  _reached back._ A muffled sound came out from the dirt. 

Dean took a leap of faith, got his hand firmly around the wrist, and pulled. 

Adam came thrashing out of the packed dirt, but more than that, he was followed by LIGHT.

Dean was pretty sure Sam yelled something, but he couldn’t tell before his back hit grass with Adam sprawling over him and it’s light, _light_ , LIGHT across his eyelids and yep, he was gone, this was definitely pass-out time.

Sam was never gonna let him live this down.

***

There was a man sitting on the ground. His legs were crossed, and his elbows were resting on his knees. He was, Dean could readily admit at least to himself, intimidatingly attractive, but in a way that skirted the uncanny valley to the point of nearly slipping right over the edge into creepy doll territory. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean asked. “I’m definitely not awake, but you are definitely not a regular dream guy. Dude. Person.”

The man seemed to make an attempt at smiling, but it came out as a grimace, made worse by the impression he gave that this wasn’t really a face he was used to making expressions with. Dean’s instincts, previously flashing DEFCON 3, lurched to DEFCON 5.

“I am that which you pulled from the ground.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what Adam looks…oh. Shit, you–get the fuck away from me, this was not part of the deal!” Dean scrambled to his feet.

Michael stayed sitting. “I’m afraid there’s no other way I can communicate with you at the moment. Adam is no longer a viable host for me. He has been restored, but not for my use.”

“Fuck you, buddy. I’m not taking his place.”

“No,” Michael said, again twisting the mouth he clearly did not own into an impression of a smile. “I wouldn’t have thought so." 

"Then what d'you want?” Dean demanded. “I thought I was done with you and your crazy-ass family.”

“I want…” Michael looked away, towards the horizon line that Dean hadn’t realised existed in this dream-space. His profile was sharp and getting sharper, like he had existed behind a curtain that was beginning to draw back. He was beginning to look less perfect, and it did something odd to Dean’s stomach. 

“Adam is being given a second chance,” Michael tried again, his voice lower and tight with emotion Dean couldn’t place. “So am I, if you permit it.”

“A second chance at what?” Dean asked, after a moment.

Michael looked up at him, and suddenly he looked old, untenably so, like the breadth of his shoulders was bowed by the weight of centuries. “At life. At being human,” he said. He got to his feet finally. He was tall, though not as tall as Sam, and his features were beginning to slip towards reality, lending his nose a slight crookedness, his jaw the roughness of beard. “Would you let me?”

“You need my permission?” Dean said, staring at him.

“You could leave me here,” Michael nodded, “And I would be as trapped as I was in the cage where my brother still languishes.”

“So you’re in my dreams, bugging me forever, or you’re human,” Dean said. He snorted. “Dude, that’s a no brainer. I’ve been waiting to put my fist in your face for ages. If you’re human, you’ll actually feel it. Yeah, I give you permission. Try living, featherbrain. See if you goddamn like it.”

Michael smiled wryly. His eyes were brown, and getting warm. “Thank you, Dean Winchester,” he murmured. “I’ll see you when you wake.”


End file.
